


sun soaked pavement (the good parts of sad times)

by whirling



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: (what i'm saying is that mal is dead in this), Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, M/M, arthur is not happy, background/past Mal/Cobb, but he could be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 03:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirling/pseuds/whirling
Summary: Sometimes Arthur thinks he keeps running with Cobb because he would unravel if he stopped.





	sun soaked pavement (the good parts of sad times)

This isn’t what he wanted, per se, the duck-and-run madness that comes with affixing himself to Cobb’s side and relegating himself to the human equivalent of a conscience; this grates, a little, and if he can feel himself rounding under the assault of holding up another person and getting nothing in return, then it’s okay, has to be okay, because he’s been off-balance since Mal and—well. A chair can’t stay upright with half its legs knocked away. Arthur doesn’t give himself the time to wonder whether he shouldn’t have built new ones, rather than subjecting himself to this rough sandpaper job. 

— — — 

The latest job is wrong, Arthur wants to say. No, fuck that, Arthur does say. He’s given, what? Two weeks and a green architect who somehow thinks Arthur doesn’t know exactly how fucked up Cobb’s mind is. Two weeks, a green architect who got her illegal job by drawing a maze for Cobb in a ring notebook, and a billionaire who has no interest in divulging information even when it’s vital to the job. 

Arthur doesn’t know when he stopped counting Cobb as an asset. 

Ariadne would probably understand. He suddenly wishes she wouldn’t. It wasn’t so long ago that he was the one sketching circles around Cobb, not long since he was able to revel in the kind of boundless creation that seemed so free and good and pure, not long since Mal plummeted to the ground and took Cobb with her. 

Arthur doesn’t know anyone who went into Limbo and came back okay.

— — — 

Cobb is going to recruit Eames and Arthur catches himself before he says anything damning about either of them, because he’s lonely but he doesn’t fancy being alone. ( _Arthur stares sadly at the shore and dares someone to swim out to be with him. There is nobody there and he does not swim back._ ) He wants to warn Eames that there is nothing good about this job, nothing to desire in whatever it is they are staring down, but there is nothing in him strong enough to keep Eames away. 

Eames is sunlit and warm and Arthur resents all of the negative space in him that aches in response. There is a difference, he thinks, between having your edges pared down, and in covering them with layers of silk. This is not to say that Eames shows none of the strain. Arthur notices the stillness that was never there before, and hates how well it suits the forger. Maybe loss has changed both of them, but Arthur isn’t sure he had enough to lose in the first place. Maybe he won’t last once his edges are worn down, an empty husk of hair gel and witty repartee and moleskines. 

Some people can just survive, and survive, and Arthur thinks madly that if he kicked Eames’s feet out, he would balance on those two legs forever. 

“You know, I said to Cobb, I said you had no imagination.” Eames has gone under, to practice something or other, and Arthur has crafted some bullshit excuse to follow him into the dream. “But that’s not the case, hmm? You’ve got to have some imagination to believe that he’s still capable of extraction, yeah?”

“You know I have better things to do with my two weeks of planning than to engage you in your palace intrigue.”

“Yes. Which is why you won’t leave now, and why I know you agree with me.” Arthur shoots himself in the head. He wishes that were anything but routine, at this point. 

— — — 

“It’s something to do with happiness, I think.” Arthur would like to complain that Eames has cornered him. He would like to complain but the only people who would care are gone or going or right here trying to make him talk about feelings.

“I’m not the goddamn mark, Eames. If you want to psychoanalyze someone on our team, do us a favor and talk to Cobb.”

“Cobb, yeah? But he’s not the reason you’re doing this, is he?”

“Doing what.” It scrapes out of him and there’s not enough time to disengage, just time enough to remove the question from his voice.

“Arthur.” 

He folds his arms and very pointedly does not roll his eyes. “That appears to be my name.”

“She’s not here, and he’s not Mal.”

“Fuck you.” Arthur doesn’t have time to deal with this. He has one week, a glorified undergrad, a billionaire who had the intelligence to choose Cobb to complete the most delicate job conceivable, a drug dealer, and Eames. 

Arthur doesn’t know when he started counting Eames as an asset.

— — — 

The job happens, and happens, and he feels the whisper of that lost spark when he manages to kick them all without gravity, but they wake up and Cobb has what he wants and Mal is still not there. Ariadne looks the kind of desolate that comes from hearing someone else’s sad story ( _Arthur leans over the chasm between himself and there is nothing(nobody) to stop him_ ). 

They have to separate, so he has another month at least before he can see James and Philippa, and Arthur is unmoored again without the one hasty tether found after her ( _Mal leans forward and snatches Cobb down with her. Arthur wishes she’d cared to take him as well_ ). 

“Cab for an Arthur?” The drawl is clear, familiar,  _ wrong _ to hear now, so soon since he’d severed from himself the hope of hearing it.

“I suppose I can’t take the subway.” 

“Darling, I so hope you don’t. I spent my whole share bribing the driver.”

“Terrible deal you made, then.” Arthur considers walking away from this, from Eames.

“I meant to call, or visit, or write.” Eames sounds uncharacteristically desperate. 

“Yes?”

“Yeah, and I had the strangest feeling that you’d be better off without me sobbing about her like the rest of us.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“Cobb does not get to be the only one to care that she’s gone.” Arthur is very heavy all of a sudden. He slumps into the passenger seat and slams the door.

“I don’t dream about her.”

“I doubt you dream at all.”

“No, Eames. I don’t  _ dream _ her, and Cobb did.” He needs Eames to understand this distinction. “I was sad, yes, but she followed Cobb. She followed Cobb to the fucking Arctic circle three layers deep and I wasn’t even fucking there when he killed her all over again and she shot me in the fucking knee!”

“Arthur. Arthur, no. That wasn’t her. Mal did not follow Cobb and Cobb didn’t put her there out of love, right? It was guilt and memory and just because you never fucked her doesn’t mean you can’t grieve.” Arthur thinks he might fly apart ( _Arthur deflates and Eames catches him as he drifts to the ground, years too late and miles too far_ ). He doesn’t do anything like hug Eames, but he doesn’t punch him either, and he doesn’t shoot off his kneecap, and he doesn’t move his hand from where Eames had covered it with his own, calloused and solid from a dishonest day’s work. 

The road smells of gasoline and the night before it rains. Arthur exhales.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fic, and I'm infinitely grateful to whomever has read this far. Many thanks to Ever for your support and for enabling my use of parentheses.


End file.
